


The Welcome to NightVale SpecialContainmentProceedure Foundation Crossover Fanfic

by candicame



Category: SCP Foundation, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:46:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candicame/pseuds/candicame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just a wtnv fanfic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Man Came Into Town Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? He says he is a scientist.

 

_Dimension Site 107_ the scientist unwisely read before flicking his eyes back up to the empty stretch of desert highway that seemed to still be completely devoid of traffic as it stretched out in either direction, eventually meeting the horizon in a wavy heated haze. It was not a sound business practice to read your dossier while driving, especially since it was not the first time that he had read it. It was, however, his first project as a group leader, and he was taking over a project that had a.... rather  _extensive_ history.

 

He jerked his eyes to the rear-view mirror to check on the unmarked van following him. It was filled with graduate students and equipment; his employers considered the former more disposable than the latter. He jerked his eyes to the dossier again and scanned for the project numbers. He just wanted to have them memorized before they got there. And the sun was setting. He was reckless but he wasn't  _stupid._ He wasn't going to read and drive in the dark.

 

SCP-3127

SCP-4695

SCP-2665

 

God there were over a hundred of them. Wait... 2685. Weren't 2600s supposed to be completely isolated? 2600 alone was responsible for mass disappearances. Anyone who even  _looked_ at one of those televisions became so susceptible that it was akin to brainwashing. 2601 summons those brainwashed soldiers every month  _against it's will_ . 2650 preys exclusively on  _children_ , using them as new host bodies. SCP 2666 forces their victims to  _worship_ them.

 

He jerked his eyes to the road and swerved to avoid hitting a jackrabbit that had somehow wandered too close to the asphalt. He should really focus on driving. But the idea that a 2600 was wandering around a dimension site, freely, influencing or brainwashing god knows what was  _genuinely terrifying_ . With his eyes on the road, he wondered how many lead scientists have been replaced on this project.

 

* * *

 

The scientist idled his car and tapped his gps. The phone was connected to his car speakers, and he felt like the graduate students he was  _trying_ to talk to weren't taking this as seriously as they should be. They had a very small window of opportunity to enter Site 107, and he really needed them to  _shut the hell up_ so they wouldn't miss it. He gritted his teeth and warned them that they were about to embark on the most important project of their lives. He stared at the clock, watching the numbers slowly change. 

 

3:35am

3:36am

3:37am

 

In front of them, the sky lit up like the aurora borealis. It shimmered, blinked, and something in the air changed. Something solidified. The scientist grinned, because the noise from the van had died off completely with the sudden appearance of site 107. He grinned because Site 107 was the most scientifically interesting dimensional site in the United States, and if he  _did_ happen to die for the foundation, this is the place he would choose to do it. Over 100 distinct SCPs, dimensional anomalies, folds in time space, and a  _class 2600_ Euclid. He put his sporty hybrid in drive, and he  _grinned,_ he grinned with the pure joy of someone who thinks that they're about to change the world. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect. 

 

He spoke gleefully into his speakers, and his voice was pleasure and caramel with oaky tones, “Alright boys and girls. Welcome to Site 107. Welcome to Night Vale.”

 


	2. And he Grinned, and Everything About him was Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just what does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he’s renting – the one next to Big Rico’s Pizza?

The gps stopped working after they crossed the threshold, and the scientist was forced to rely on street signs and the written instructions in his packet, which were, at best, unreliable, and at worst completely contrary to what he was seeing in the world around him. The sun was rising by the time he and his team managed to locate the lab they had been assigned. He parked out front and waited for the van to stop and the undergrads, high on caffeine, adrenaline, and youth, to spill out.

 

“Alright, let's see what our predecessors left us,” the scientist smiled, shuffling through his pockets for a set of keys. He unlocked the door and coughed as a wave of dust clouded around and coated him. It _covered_ the floor, at least an inch thick, and even the slight movement of the door was enough to choke him with what it had unsettled. He coughed again and staggered backwards.

 

“Someone unpack the masks, please,” he wheezed. He was prone to indoor allergies anyway, dust, animal dander, that sort of thing, and was forced to take off his glasses and wipe at his eyes to get them to stop watering.

 

A few minutes later, armed with safety goggles and ventilation masks, he led his assistants inside. By the agency's reports, the former team had stopped sending information only a few months ago, but this place looked as if it hadn't seen any signs of life in decades. He tried a light switch and found that the electricity was working, but had not been used, because farther investigation showed that the specimen freezers had gone warm, and were filled with a terrifying and unknowable green mold, the seismograph was broken, as if someone had taken a crowbar to it, and none of the computers were functional.

 

Rochelle called out to say that she found a fully operational kitchen, but it was in a similar state of disrepair. None of the appliances seemed to be plugged in, and the fridge was covered in a layer of purple slime. Everything was going to require a deep scrubbing before the place was close to livable. What the hell could have possibly happened to leave it in such a state?

 

They found a staircase leading down to what they discovered was a series of bedrooms. They very much felt like a college dormitory and everyone would have to share a bathroom, but the most disturbing aspect was that everything inside was also covered in a thick layer of dust, but nothing was in disarray. The beds were neatly made, the desks were neatly organized, some of the shelves still held personal possessions from the previous team.

 

There were six scientists and four bedrooms, so the lead researcher left his graduate students to fight among themselves and claimed the room nearest the stairs, where he immediately set about removing the dusty bedding. He cringed when he saw the mouse droppings. Well, that explains what happened to the lab rats. He wadded the cloth into a pile and carried it down the hall looking for a laundry room.

 

That is where he found the mice. They had chewed through the drier's ventilation tube and made a nice little nest. He opened the dryer to see dozens of tiny, glowing red eyes staring at him.

 

He closed the dryer.

 

A pounding at the door upstairs drew his attention so he dumped the bedding unceremoniously onto the floor and went to answer it. Maybe, hopefully, the foundation had sent a cleaning crew. Instead, he found a woman, completely unexceptional except for her surplus limbs, surrounded by a semi-circle of figures in hoods bearing the insignia of the city counsel.

 

He pulled down his mask to ask, “Can I help you?”

 

“INTERLOPER!” the entire assembly shouted at him. Strangely, there was no hint of malice in the insult, they spoke as if they were just stating a fact.

 

The scientist stared at them for a few seconds, trying to formulate the correct response, and finally settled on, “I'm sorry, is there a problem? My name is Carlos. I'm a scientist. My team and I accepted a grant and were told that we had full use of this space. We went through all the proper channels. We... that is, _I_ wouldn't consider us, interlopers.”

 

“Carlos the scientist,” the entire city counsel spoke in unison, “We do not accept interlopers here in our friendly desert community. You will explain yourself!”

 

“Um,” Carlos began, tried to start again, and failed, “Um.”

 

This time the woman spoke, by herself, like a sentient creature capable of independent thought, “Mr Scientist, I have arranged a press conference at Town Hall, during the Town Meeting, at 9:00am.”

 

Carlos tilted his head in confusion, “That's in three hours. We've been driving all night... You want us to, uh... explain ourselves? To the town?”

 

“Yes,” She explained, “So that we can determine whether or not you can be permitted to stay.”

 

Carlos stared at her in confusion, trying to ascertain how much, if any, or what he was seeing and hearing was real. When he finally opened his mouth again, it was only to say, “Well... alright then.”

 

“Good,” the woman answered, and pressed a button firmly into the fabric of his lab coat. If he hadn't been wearing a thick layer of flannel underneath, it would have grazed his flesh. “We'll see you there”.

 

And she, and the hooded figures, were gone. They hadn't walked away or gone to a vehicle. One minute they were there, and the next they simply weren't. Carlos pulled the button off his coat and studied it, fully expecting it to say “interloper”. Instead, it proudly proclaimed, “VOTE WINCHELL FOR MAYOR OF NIGHTVALE”.

 

He sighed and went to tell his team to prepare for the press conference.


	3. His hair is perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That new scientist – we now know it’s named Carlos – called a town meeting. He has a square jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure.

The scientists were not prepared to talk to the town. They hadn't been told that they would have to address the entire town at once. Carlos, especially, was not prepared, which was terrible, because as the team leader he would be the one who would have to actually _give_ any speeches that needed giving. And he was likely going to have to give them in front of a plethora of things that would very likely kill him just to hear him scream.

 

The water was still running and Carlos jumped in the shower before anyone could get the chance to steal it from him. This proved to be a fight, as Dave, who he had known since they were both undergrads had attempted to race him, only to wind up face down on the floor with Carlos's dusty lab coat thrown over his head. All's fair in love, war, and SCIENCE!

 

Carlos could still hear Dave bitching as he adjusted the water. About how Carlos thought he could win every race just because he had got his PhD thesis approved first, but he had best get that idea out of his curly little head, because Dave was going to get him back. He was going to prank the  _shit_ out of him, and he was going to do it when he least expected it. Carlos told him that if he was so impatient, he could go use the emergency shower upstairs. He neglected to tell him about the rats in the drier.

 

They never seemed to run out of hot water, as the six of them were able to generally defilth themselves, removing not only the dust but the general desert grime, and no one was complaining about being completely frozen. One of the undergrads had made a pot of coffee and poured herself a cup, and Carlos wondered where she  _got_ the coffee, but decided that sometimes he should just be thankful that someone was looking out for him. He downed cup after cup as he flipped through his dossier to find their project goals, and to  _try_ to find a way to make them resonate with the town.

 

There was no way. He couldn't tell the citizens that they were trapped in a designated site for SCPs and were being observed by team after team of scientists. That was the last thing he could do. And he didn't particularly want to make them think that NightVale was unique, because that might make them  _want_ to travel. He couldn't think of anything.

 

He laid his head on the table and Rochelle teasingly patted his hair.

 

“I will give you five dollars to write this speech for me,” he apparently addressed this remark to the freshly wiped table. The pine-sol scented chemicals made his head spin and did nothing to help him think.

 

“Wow boss,” Rochelle yanked his hair and he grimaced, “Thanks big spender”.

 

“You guys are college kids. Think how much Ramen that would buy.” He argued.

 

“You'll just have to wing it,” Dave replied, hair still dripping as he lifted the coffee pot.

 

“Don't,” Carlos warned, lifting his head to watch him, “Dude it was on a hot plate...”

 

“No,” Rochelle waved her hand at Carlos to shss him, “I want to see this.”

 

Dave proceeded to chug the half pot of coffee that he had just pulled from the coffee maker. Carlos grimaced for him.

 

* * *

 

He still had no idea what he was going to say when he got there. His new plan was to simply introduce the team and then take questions. They were given chairs, which his team took, and a podium, which he stood behind, and an empty room, which quickly filled up. There were two empty tables covered in white cloth that he had assumed were just decorative, but as people pooled in, he realized that this event was pot-luck and that he and his team hadn't brought anything. That was going to make a /great/ impression.

 

He was relieved to see that most of the inhabitants looked more or less human. Give or take a limb, or an organ, they were completely normal. But then he saw an ancient-looking lady, stooped with age and carrying a tray of muffins. She could have passed for human easily. Her companions, could not. He had only seen one living specimen before, when he first started working for the foundation. The 469 that he had seen had been a bright, almost glowing white, but it had been curled in on itself. All he had really ever seen was a breathing pile of feathers. Just a folded bundle of wings. But these... these were standing, they were floating, moving, and  _actually_ glowing.

 

They were beautiful. They were terrifying. They were tall, and imposing and radiating some sort of glowing, pulsating energy. He didn't know that he had stopped breathing until one of them looked at him and he gasped. The elder put the muffins on the table, and the three divine beings followed her to her seat. Carlos was shaking.

 

When the big hand on his watch hit the 12 he tapped the microphone.

 

“Hello, people of Night Vale,” he began.

 

The entire crowd spoke as one, in response, crying out “INTERLOPER”.

 

Carlos cleared his throat, “Yes well. About that. I don't want to be an interloper. I love NightVale! In fact, I think that NightVale is probably the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and if you'll have us, I would love to study just what exactly is going on around here.”

 

He caught sight of one of the divine creatures again. It met his eyes and nodded. Carlos felt his entire body swell with delight, with perfection, with angelic radiance and acceptance. He couldn't stop smiling. He felt loved. He felt welcomed. He felt like he had found the place where he belonged. He felt... weird. And at peace. And  _home._ It dropped its gaze and Carlos turned back to the crowd.

 

“I would be happy to take any questions that any of you may have.”

 

But he didn't remember any of the questions. He went through the rest of the meeting in a haze of purplish blacklight, feeling exactly like he imagined a blacklight poster on a stoner's wall might feel. He had an angelic contact buzz, his vision was fuzzy, he tasted lavender and scones and corn muffins that honestly could have used some salt, and he knew what the feeling was. Scientifically, it made no sense. He knew that he had simply fallen into the creature's trap. But he couldn't help it. He grinned, and he didn't stop grinning, even as he collapsed into the stripped, bare mattress in his bedroom and stared at the ceiling. It was love, pure, angelic, divine, unquestioning and uncomplicated  _love_ flowing from the town. It wasn't just a  _place_ where the foundation had stuck these creatures, trapped them, isolated them. It was a tight knit community that had opened it's arms and welcomed him. It was a beautiful community, where the sun was hot, the moon was  _so_ beautiful, and the foundation satellites passed overhead while he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. It was a welcoming town, and he had fallen in love with it instantly.


	4. Carlos and his team of scientists warn that one of the houses in the new development of Desert Creek, out back of the elementary school, doesn’t actually exist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At news time, the scientists are standing in a group on the sidewalk in front of the nonexistent house, daring each other to go knock on the door.

Carlos looked at the tablet in front of him, then back to the house, then back to the tablet.

 

“Well,” he scratched the side of his head, “I mean... it's not giving off any radiation or anything. I mean... all the other houses exist, right?”

 

“It's a 1400 series,” Rochelle explained, “It's displaying the same properties as 1485”

 

“But we had to build site 68 around 1485,” Carlos sighed and looked back to the house, “This is just... the entire house is giving out readings like it's a 1400. We should probably not... just... let it exist. I mean I know these people are SCPs, but there's a playground over there!”

 

Dave followed the vague direction that Carlos had gestured in and replied, “That's the elementary school. This whole housing development is out back of the elementary school.”

 

“Right!” Carlos declared, “So if this /is/ a 1400 series, it's possible that it can open a portal. We /really/ need to set up some kind of containment.”

 

“If it is a 1400,” Rochelle explained, “Then technically it doesn't exist, right? It's stuck between worlds.”

 

“But... well I guess /technically/. But I mean it seems like it exists. Like it's right there when you look at it. And it's between two identical houses, so it makes more sense for it to be there than not.” he slid a fingertip across the tablet's surface, “But it looks like the team before us did a series of tests and determined that it was a 1400, and... yeah, it doesn't exist in this dimension, I guess.” He pushed his glasses up and turned his gaze back to the house, “But it's /right there/.”

 

“Hey Carlos,” Dave smirked, “I dare you to go ring the doorbell.”

 

“You go ring the doorbell,” Carlos narrowed his eyes at him.

 

“Do it,” Dave chanted.

 

“I'm not touching it! I might get sucked into some weird alternate dimension! I'm the lead researcher. You touch it!” Carlos clung to the tablet.

 

“Yeah Dave,” Rochelle added, “Go ring the doorbell.”

 

“I'm not ringing the goddamn doorbell on the inter-dimensional portal,” Dave hissed.

 

Carlos smirked, “Why not? You scared?”

 

“Fuck yeah I'm scared. God only knows what might be in there! You touch it!”

 

“Touch it” Rochelle picked up a dandelion from the lawn and threw it over Carlos at Dave.

 

“Ring the doorbell!” Carlos commanded, “I dare you. Double dare, since you dared me. Turned it around. Now if you don't do it you have to buy us pizza.”

 

“Fuck you /both/,” Dave replied, “Carlos, you said it yourself, you're team leader. Go ring the fucking doorbell!”

 

“Touch it, touch it, touch it,” Carlos began to chant, and in a very scientific manner, Rochelle soon joined him, “Touch it, touch it, touch it”

 

“I will slap the /shit/ out of you!” Dave hissed.

 

Carlos jumped when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A teenager stood behind them, holding an antique looking microphone and wearing a red T-shirt that proudly proclaimed him to be a member of the Night Vale Community Radio Internship Program. He had a name tag which had been scribbled quickly in a substance that was not ink, but couldn't readily be identified (Coffee stain? Maybe?) that declared his name was Chad, but did so rather illegibly.

 

“You're Carlos, the scientist,” Chad didn't frame it as a question, “From the town meeting.”

 

“Yes?” Carlos asked, thinking that the conversation may be going backwards.

 

“Are you out here doing important science? With your lab coats and your uh... science thing,” the boy asked, pointed to the tablet.

 

“Oh,” Carlos stuttered and pushed his glasses up /again/, since he had to look down at the boy and they kept slipping, “Yes, actually. We're researching the house here. It doesn't actually exist and /no one/ in NightVale should ever touch it.”

 

“What do you mean it doesn't exist?” the boy asked, shoving the microphone in Carlos's face.

 

“I mean, well I've already gone over this with my team but it /seems like it exists. Like,” he gestured toward the house, “It's right there when you look at it. And it's And it’s between two other identical houses, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not.” He paused and rubbed his chin, “But rest assured that we have done /several/, /very scientific/ tests and they all point to the fact that it /doesn't exist/. If you're recording me, which you maybe... could have asked permission to do, by the way, make sure that everyone in town understands that they are NOT to touch the non-existent house in the Desert Creek housing development. Which they might not be able to do anyway, because it doesn't exist.”

 

The boy nodded, and as an afterthought added, “Have you scientists been to Big Rico's yet? The best pizza place in town. No one does a slice like Big Rico's.” he narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped in volume, almost threateningly, “No one.”

 

Carlos stared at him for a few minutes before glancing at his team and then back down, “Uh... no. Not yet. But we can't really go for pizza with you, uh... Chad. We have important scientific research to finish up here. Maybe some other time.”

 

“Just make sure you get it in by the end of the week,” Chad explained, as a shadow fell across his face, “You're running out of time.”

 

“O...kay... then,” Carlos nodded with the solemnity that he felt the situation warranted, and watched the boy flee down the street in the direction of downtown.

 

“Well that happened,” Dave admitted, then turned back to stare at the house, “Carlos. Go knock on the door.”


	5. Carlos and his scientists at the monitoring station near Route 800 say their seismic monitors have been indicating wild seismic shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos says that they’ve double-checked the monitors and they are in perfect working order. To put it plainly, there appears to be catastrophic earthquakes happening right here in Night Vale that absolutely no one can feel.
> 
> Well, submit an insurance claim anyway. See what you can get, right?

Working for the foundation meant that most people wound up, at one point or another, working outside their specialty. Rochelle was the biologist and botanist, but Carlos knew he would eventually wind up collecting samples and staring down microscopes. Dave was a geologist specializing in seismology, but Carlos was the one wiping his hands as they finished assembling the new seismograph in the monitoring station, near route 800. The internet worked only intermittently, and Dave didn't have the intimate knowledge of his machines that he did with the working of the Earth, so it had taken significantly more time than it should have to get them up and running.

 

While Dave stood trying to program the thing, Carlos sat drinking a cup of coffee and frowning into it.

 

“We need to go to the grocery store,” he finally decided.

 

“mm” Dave agreed with the air of someone who wasn't listening in the slightest.

 

“We don't have any food,” Carlos reminded him.

 

“mm” he replied.

 

“We could try that pizza place,” Rochelle suggested as she walked into the lab holding sample containers filled with various insects. “The one across the road from the lab.”

 

“mm” Dave agreed, and stepped back from the machine, “It'll take a little while to get any kind of reading anyway. What did you say? Pizza?”

 

“I could do pizza,”Carlos agreed, sipping his coffee and lazily spinning his swivel chair in slow circles, “I could do... pi-zza.”

 

“Boss, you ok?” Rochelle turned to him, “You've been kinda... off since the town meeting.”

 

“He locked eyes with the 469,” Dave explained without looking away from the machine. He frowned and furrowed his brow, “Do you guys feel... anything at all?” He jumped. He looked confused. He jumped again. He looked around the lab.

 

“Seriously. Do you guys feel anything?”

 

“Should we?” Carlos cracked one eye open and turned his head, still lolling over the back of the chair, in Dave's general direction.

 

“Nothing's _moving_ ,” Dave seemed distressed by it.

 

“Nooo,” Carlos agreed, dragging the word out.

 

“Is it registering something?” Rochelle asked, and changed her stride to look at the readout. “Shit, Carlos, look at this.”

 

Carlos stood reluctantly, still sipping his coffee. His eyes widened when he looked at the screen. He took off his glasses, wiped them on his lab coat, and put them back on. After a few seconds he said, “We had to put it together wrong.”

 

Dave glared at him, “It's put together _perfectly_.”

 

“Well we're not flailing around like we're standing on jello, so there's a problem _somewhere_ ,” Carlos countered.

 

“I'm taking the portable seismograph, that we brought, that we KNOW isn't broken, and going further into town,” Dave pushed past them to root through the equipment.

 

Carlos massaged his closed eyes, pushing his glasses up to rest on his forehead, “Dave. Seriously. It is the middle of the night. None of us have slept. I honestly,  _honestly_ , have no idea what's real and what's a melatonin deficiency induced hallucination. I half expect Freddy Kreuger to show up and start picking us off. Can you get a reading from the pizza place?”

 

“He's right, Rochelle added, “We drove in, cleaned the lab, went to that town meeting, then out to that 1400, you guys put this machine together... no one has eaten. No one has slept,”

 

“Carlos slept,” Dave interrupted, heaving up the device he had been looking for.

 

“I slept for like an hour with no sheets on a dirty mattress before _you_ woke me up to go to the damn house that doesn't even exist.” Carlos pulled his glasses back over his eyes and scratched his neck, “I'm still itchy. We need to clean the bedrooms. Like... _deep_ clean.”

 

“Can you check the readings over food?” Rochelle asked, exasperated.

 

“I... yeah, I can do that. It's in town.” Dave looked at the device in his hands, “This is registering the activity too. I mean this isn't a small quake. This is almost an _eight_.”

 

“Food,” Carlos whined, then as an afterthought, “sleeeep”.

 

 

* * *

 

Big Rico's looked like every other family run pizza place in every other small town. The booths were covered in a fine layer of grease, the menus were plastic, there was a napkin dispenser next to a cheese and a spice shaker. The scientists took a booth by the window that looked out onto their lab, and when the waitress came by, they decided to just get a supreme because they were all too tired to argue about it and they would just pick off what they didn't want.

 

“See?” Dave showed them the readouts from the portable machine, his eyes bugging.

 

“Are you on the crack cocaine?” Rochelle asked him, rubbing her eyes, “How are you this awake?”

 

“He's blinded by science,” Carlos answered, laying his head on the sticky table, then, as he realized what he had done, added, “eeew”.

 

“Sure wish she would bring us some soda. With /caffeine/.” Rochelle tapped her fingers impatiently on the table.

 

“That is just _super_ loud right next to my head,” Carlos pushed himself up. “At least the moon is beautiful tonight. Look at that. All full and... I don't know, I'm not a poet.”

 

“It's a weird position for it, isn't it?” Dave asked, following his gaze.

 

“No? I mean, it's about at it's zenith,” Carlos leaned back against his seat, trying his best not to fall over on Rochelle's shoulder. “God we've been awake almost 24 hours. We. Need. Rest. I'm too old for these all nighters anymore.”

 

“No,” Dave pointed past Carlos, “It's not 3 or 4 in the morning, it's like 11pm,”.

 

“It's 3:37,” Carlos sighed, and pointed to his watch.

 

Rochelle furrowed her brow and pulled out her phone, “No, I've got 10:59.”

 

“There's no way it's just 11,” Carlos insisted, “I'm not _that_ old. I've pulled all nighters before. I can still tell time. I mean... register the passage of time. Doesn't it feel later than that to you?”

 

He looked behind him at the clock that Dave had been pointing at, resting on the counter next to the cash register. As he did, the second hand hit the 12, and the static that had been filling the air died. It must have been playing through the speakers. Instead, a voice came on the radio.

 

“ _A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.”_

 

The waitress sat their soda down in front of each of them and returned a second later with the pizza. They were ravenous, but it was Rochelle who warned them not to touch it. Apparently, one of the toppings included in the supreme was scorpion tails, baked right on top, just like the rest. She reached into her coat and pulled out a baggie and a pair of tweezers, and picked them off, one by one. When she extracted them from the cheese, they _moved_.

 

The boys didn't wait for her to clear the entire pie. As soon as she finished a slice, one of them grabbed it. They were on their second by the time Carlos perked up. Having some food in him seemed to give him a second wind. They had all tuned out the late night talk show, and were discussing the time, and how to moon didn't hang in the sky correctly if any of the clocks except Carlos's watch were correct, when the conversation died down because they heard Carlos's name. He thought someone had been calling to him, but it turned out to be coming from the radio.

 

“ _ **Carlos**_ _– called a town meeting. He has a square jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure._ ” Said the man on the radio, and Carlos felt his flesh burn with embarrassment.

 

“Maybe... it's a different Carlos.” he murmured into his soda.

 

“A different Carlos who speaks at town meetings?” Dave teased. “Aaaw, looks like the npr guy has a crush on you,”

 

“It's not npr, it's a local station. It's like, community radio. It's the pbs of radio,” Carlos bit into another slice of pizza, “And he said he hated my hair. That's not a crush.” he added defensively, with his mouth full.

 

“ _Carlos told us that we are_ _ _ **by far**__ _the most scientifically interesting community in the U.S., and he had come to study just what is going on around here. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly._ ” said the man on the radio, and Carlos died a little inside.

 

“Oh my god, that's so cute,” Rochelle giggled.

 

“Why is this a thing?” Carlos asked, darting his head over the booth to see if anyone was looking at him, “How is this possibly a thing? _Did_ we stumble into some alternate dimension? I don't remember touching the 1400...”

 

“Carlos shss,” Dave waved a hand at him dismissively, “I'm trying to hear the radio”

 

“ _Government agents from a vague yet menacing agency were in the back, watching. I fear for Carlos. I fear for Night Vale. I fear for anyone caught between what they know and what they don’t yet know that they don’t know._ ” The man's voice changed from one of fear to one of upbeat delight, in the way that only news broadcasters seem to be able to, “ _We received a press release this morning. The Night Vale Business Association is proud to announce the opening of the brand new Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area. I have been to these facilities myself recently on their invitation, and I can tell you that it is absolutely top of the line and beautiful._ ” He seemed to have nothing more to say about Carlos.

 

“Oh my god,” Carlos slunk down in the booth like he wanted to disappear under the table.

 

“Come on, boss,” Rochelle poked him playfully, “Get up. Don't be embarrassed. You are cute.”

 

“Who does that? On the _radio_?” Carlos pulled himself up, “And _why_?”

 

Dave shrugged and took another piece of the rapidly cooling pizza, “I dunno man. You are hot.”

 

“I'm not-”

 

“Carlos _shss_ ,” Dave cut him off again. “I'd totally bang you if I had to pick a dude.”

 

“Dave. No. Stop.” Carlos buried his face in his hands. “The _entire_ LBGT+ community is extremely happy that you don't have to pick a dude.”

 

“Didn't you live together for like four years?” Rochelle asked, confused.

 

“In _college_ ,” Dave explained, “But we were just roommates. Nothing much happened.”

 

Carlos nudged Rochelle, gently. “Let me out. I'm going to see if they'll let me look at that clock,” he said in a desperate attempt to change the subject.


	6. Carlos, perfect and beautiful, came into our studios during the break earlier but declined to stay for an interview.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had some sort of blinking box in his hand covered with wires and tubes. Said he was testing the place for “materials.”

Carlos slumped, defeated, back into the booth. 

 

“They won't give me their clock” he admitted. “They did give me this box for the rest of the pizza.”

 

Rochelle nodded, then added playfully, “Dave, go pay the lady.”

 

“Why am I paying? Carlos is the team leader. It works like little league, right? The coach buys the pizza?”

 

“No,” Rochelle explained, “Carlos double-dared you to touch the 1400, with the express explanation that pizza was on the line, and you were too chicken-shit”.

 

“I was very clear about it,” Carlos nodded, and reached over Rochelle to grab the last few drinks of his pop, “I don't think that there's any possible confusion”.

 

“Very clear,” Rochelle agreed.

 

While Dave was gone, his seismograph continued to jump back and forth wildly. Eventually he glanced down at his watch, then up at the moon again. He pulled out his phone and googled the correct time of the sunset. Then he took a napkin and pen from his pocket and drew a crude arch, and filled in the margins with math.

 

“You know,” he told Rochelle, who was picking pepperonis off the pizza she had put in the box and eating them, “Even by my watch the sun would have set at the wrong time. It would have been off by about 10 minutes. By the other clocks it would have been off by hours. That's weird, right? Is there an SCP here that controls time?”

 

Rochelle took the napkin from him and studied it carefully, tapping her fingertip against the tabletop.

 

After a few minutes of study she said, “I don't know. Maybe it's the radiation? Don't some radioactive chemicals distort the perception of time? Radon Canyon is on the outskirts of town and it's just... I mean Godzilla levels pouring out of there.”

 

“This is going to bug me.” Carlos stirred the ice in his glass, “You think we could head out there tonight and maybe collect some samples? See if we can find any radioactive materials?”

 

“I thought you were sleepy.” She arched an eyebrow.

 

“I am. I mean, I'm falling over. Maybe just the buildings around Radon Canyon? I mean, there are people living and working there. We shouldn't just let them be all radioactive. Like you said, Godzilla. The last thing we need is SCP Spiderman.” Carlos tried desperately to suck any reminents of caffeine from the melting ice.

 

“What are we talking about?” Dave asked as he returned and tossed a couple dollars on the table in way of a tip.

 

“Carlos wants us to take some geiger counters and do a sweep of the buildings near Radon Canyon,” Rochelle explained, “Even though he's sleepy enough that he's likely to fall /into/ the canyon and have to spider wall-climb his way back out.

 

“You don't get spider powers from just radiation,” Carlos countered, “You have to get bitten by a radioactive spider. We don't know if there are any spiders in the canyon.”

 

“He didn't get powers from the spider, he awakened his dormant powers from the radiation,” Rochelle narrowed her eyes, “He got his powers because he's the avatar of the spider god. Read a /book/, Carlos”

 

“Wait, what?” Carlos arched an eyebrow, “Spidergod?”

 

“Yes the spider god. Look, the Marvel multiverse has MULTIPLE spidermen” Rochelle explained, “Not all of them have been bitten by radioactive spiders.”

 

“Spidermen?” Carlos stared at her.

 

“Don't.” Dave warned, “Please don't get her started on the Marvel Universe. Just please.”

 

“Spidermen?” Carlos repeated.

 

“ **Anyway** ,” Dave went on as if they hadn't spoken, looking at his phone, “I'm looking at a map and I think this is a fantastic idea. You know,” he turned the phone so Carlos could see it, “I think we should start with the radio station. Turns out the canyon is right out back of the station. In it's back yard, so to speak.”

 

“I completely redact my suggestion that we test these buildings for radioactive materials,” Carlos's face blanked.

 

“Why Carlos,” Rochelle grinned, “You would let innocent people get radiation sickness rather than confront your not so secret admirer.”

 

Carlos whined, “Can you guys take the station and let me do a different building?”

 

Dave jumped up, grabbed the pizza box, and slapped Carlos on the back, “Come on. Let's go get the counters.”

 

* * *

 

Carlos believed, on some level that he deserved the ribbing about the radio host. He thought that he had pulled enough shit in his life, enough pranks, that whatever the man was building to (since it was impossible he /actually/ had a crush and then /announced it on the radio/) he probably deserved it. What he did not deserve, was being locked out of the van, geiger counter in hand, while Rochelle and Dave laughed at him.

 

“Oh come on!” he banged on the window, “You have to go in with me!”

 

“We don't want to get in the way,” Dave's voice was muffled by the glass.

 

“I don't trust you not to drive off and leave me here!” Carlos smacked the window again, “Come on! Get out and come with me!”

 

The bloodstone doors in front of the building opened, and the boy from earlier stepped out. Without looking around, he dug through his pockets and leaned against the side of the building. He produced a pack of green cigarettes, took one out, pressed it to his lips, and lit it. A cloud of smoke wafted past his face toward the night sky.

 

Carlos banged the window once last time, and accepted that he really was going this alone. He was angry. No, not angry, nervous. No, not nervous, apprehensive. He was tired and angry and nervous and apprehensive, and he had never washed his sheets and at this point he was resigned to sleeping in the back of the damn van if he had to, because this day had reached the maximum amount of bullshittery that he was willing to put up with.

 

He walked toward the building.

 

“It was Chad, right?” He asked, smiling.

 

Chad turned in the direction of the voice. His eyes glazed over and his muscles seemed to forget how to work. Carlos tilted his head in confusion. Chad had seemed fine earlier, at the 1400.

 

“Alright then,” Carlos turned toward the door and pulled the handle. He was met with the kind of resistance that made him think that maybe he needed to push. But that didn't work either. He turned back to the boy, “Uh, Chad? Is the door locked?”

 

The geiger counter was beeping steadily and Carlos wondered if he should have brought a protective suit. He probably shouldn't make decisions regarding potentially cancerous materials while sleep deprived and under the influence of a 469.

 

“Ummmm,” Chad had been staring at him the entire time he had been trying to open the door, and his expression didn't change as he spoke, “It's /bloodstone/.” He said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“That's...” Carlos paused, and then continued. He was going to say that he didn't know how that was relevant, but his mind pulled something up from it's depths, as it is want to do, “That's very interesting, actually. Bloodstone isn't naturally occurring here. These are huge. It would have all had to be shipped in. This must have cost a fortune.” He stepped back and stared up at the doors, taken in by the ornate beauty. There were figures carved in the stone that weren't obvious when standing at a distance. He ran his hand over it, letting himself get lost in the tactile sensation.

 

Meanwhile the geiger counter kept beeping, warning him of the intense levels of radioactivity.

 

He snapped out of that train of thought when a particularly loud beep caught his attention. “Chad? Can you let me in, please?”

 

“It's /bloodstone/,” Chad repeated. Then when he saw that Carlos was still confused, he added, “It requires a blood sacrifice.”

 

Carlos's mouth formed the words 'blood sacrifice' as he looked at the doors in confusion, but no words came out. Chad stepped forward, apparently tired of watching Carlos petering about at the ordinary door as if it were something worth admiring, and pressed his hand firmly into the rock. He slid it sideways until his finger caught on a particularly sharp piece of the carved figures. A drop of his blood dripped down the cracks between the upraised artwork, and the stone seemed to /absorb/ it. It let out a faint glow and slid open, reaching inward. Carlos realized that this building was much older than the invention of radio.

 

“There you go,” Chad took another long draw from his cigarette, then stuck his finger in his mouth. “It's just ordinary bloodstone.”

 

“Thank you,” Carlos was staring at the dark interior of the station, but felt that he must look rather foolish. Apparently this was nothing for the average NightValian. So he turned to Chad and added, by way of explanation, “I'm not from around here.”

 

“I know.” Chad replied, but didn't elaborate.

 

Carlos nodded and walked inside. The door slammed shut behind him. He was in a dark, windowless corridor, lined with doors. Fortunately, all the doors were labeled, some with brass plaques, some with hastily scribbled signs, some with what looked like dried barbecue sauce. /Barbecue Sauce/ he reminded himself, as he walked past a door with the word “archives” written in /barbecue sauce/. 

 

This building was definitely radioactive. The geiger counter was going crazy, getting brighter and faster as he walked down the hall. Near the end, he saw a door labeled “Studio 01”, and stepped inside. It opened to a producer's booth, but it was empty. The large window overlooking the recording booth glowed with the neon purple of a sign lit to alert Carlos that the person in the booth was currently “on air”.

 

The geiger counter was going crazy. 

 

Carlos walked to the window and peered inside the recording booth. It was big enough for an entire band, but a single man sat at the soundboard. His sonorous voice filled the booth, and the small room Carlos inhabited. That voice seemed to /fill/ the air, like something tangible, something that he could touch, swim through, lose himself in. Carlos found himself leaning against the glass, taking in every word of that honey-sweet voice.

 

“ _Carlos and his scientists at the monitoring station near Route 800 say their seismic monitors have been indicating wild seismic shifts – meaning to say that the ground should be going up and down all over the place. I don’t know about you folks, but the ground has been as still as the crust of a tiny globe rocketing through an endless void could be._ ” said the man in the recording studio, and hearing that beautiful voice say his name made Carlos swoon. He pulled over a swivel chair and sat down.

 

“ _Carlos says that they’ve double-checked the monitors and they are in perfect working order. To put it plainly, there appears to be catastrophic earthquakes happening right here in Night Vale that absolutely no one can feel._ _Well, submit an insurance claim anyway. See what you can get, right?_ ” The man in the studio suggested, and the logical part of Carlos's brain told him that he had NOT said that to this man. Or to Chad. Or to anyone except the scientists he worked with. Carlos blinked. He shook his head. He reached under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked back into the recording booth.

 

The man inside was unremarkable in many ways. He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. He was wearing a tie. But he had his eyes, his /human/ eyes closed, but in the center of his forehead, a third eye, with a glowing purple iris, stood open, staring ahead at nothing at all. That beautiful voice. That all-seeing eye. The trance he had almost given into. This man was SCP 2665. 

 

The eye, which had been staring ahead, jumped, and gazed /directly/ at him. Carlos jumped, but couldn't look away. He was locked in that deep violet pool, he felt himself locked to the spot- no! Not locked. /Compelled/. Compelled to remain exactly where he was.

 

“ _Now, police are issuing warnings about ghost cars out on the highways, those cars only visible in the distance reaching unimaginable speeds leaving destinations unknown for destinations more unknown. They would like to remind you that you should not set your speed by these apparitions, and doing so will not be considered “following the flow of traffic.”_ _However, they do say that it’s probably safe to match speed with the mysterious lights in the sky, as whatever entities or organizations responsible appear to be cautious and reasonable drivers._ ” Said the man in the recording studio.

 

“ _Stay right there, Carlos, perfect, beautiful Carlos,”_ said the voice in Carlos's head, “ _You should really take better care of yourself, Perfect Carlos. You're tired. Too tired. Too tired to meet the perfect creature you're looking at. You should leave. Come back when you're well rested. When you've brushed your hair. When you aren't wearing flannel, and ripped jeans, and a /lab coat/.”_ The thoughts in his head swooped and mingled and he realized that the voice in his head wasn't the voice of the man on the radio, it was his own. He blushed. He was not... that vain, for one thing, but he also was not, could not be, /attracted/ to an SCP. They weren't even /human/. They were experiments. They needed to be /contained/. They were... very scientifically interesting.

 

The geiger counter was so loud and frantic that he reached down and turned it off. He leaned over the producer's desk to watch the man- the /creature/, he corrected himself, watching him. He was beautiful. The more Carlos studied him the more he found his skin heating up. The man- /the SCP/ was wearing an eclectic outfit. The dress shirt was lavender, the tie a neon purple like the 'on air' sign. His pants were cut like dress pants, but had electric indigo stripes down the side like he had stepped out of Tron. He was wearing a goddamn /fanny pack/, like a baby boomer mall mom on a cruise vacation. Carlos put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

 

The eye in the man- /the SCP's/, Carlos, he's a goddamn /experiment/, not a /person/, closed his third eye, and his bottom two, just as beautiful as the extraordinary one, looked up at Carlos under brilliant, lavender lashes, as the man (THE SCP) in the recording booth said, “ _And now, the weather”_ . 

 

He flipped a button on the soundboard, and with his eyes still on Carlos, he smiled. He had teeth that glowed like the stars scattered throughout the void of space, and Carlos reminded himself that it was scientifically impossible to fall in love instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I am sleepy as fuck and I did not proofread this in any way. If it's too bad to read, being a first draft written by a sleep-deprived crazy lady, let me know in the comments and I'll fix it. If you guys don't give a fuck I'm just gonna not edit and move on, so seriously, I'd love some feedback.
> 
> So Cecil here is pretty generic, but if you want to know what's in my head, my headcannon Cece has purple skin and hair, the fandom third eye, tentacles, and tattoos. I've done a couple of drawings of him: http://takocos.tumblr.com/post/121173445388/cecil-with-his-horrible-bedding-and-tacky and http://takocos.tumblr.com/post/119358644763


	7. Carlos looked nervous. I’ve never seen that kind of look on someone with that strong of a jaw.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He left in a hurry. Told us to evacuate the building. But then, who would be here to talk to sweetly to all of you out there?

The man on the radio motioned for Carlos to join him in his recording booth. Carlos was /painfully/ aware that he had been awake far longer than was generally healthy for a human being, that he probably had red veins showing in his eyes and dark bags under them. He ran a hand through his curls, trying to separate them into something that didn't resemble a mop, and stepped into the booth with him.

 

“Hello,” he smiled, and the man smiled back, and he felt more at ease than he had since he looked into the eyes of the 469, “I'm Carlos. I'm a scientist.”

 

“Oh?” the man asked, as if he hadn't just been talking about Carlos on the radio. He extended a hand, never taking his gorgeous eyes off the scientist, “Cecil Gershwin Palmer, local radio personality. You know, I'm /very/ into science these days.”

 

“Are you?” Carlos took his hand and shook it, firmly. Cecil's touch was electric, and sent tingles down his spine, and... burned. Why did it burn? Why was there pain? He jerked his eyes to their hands and noticed the impossible. The tattoos that spilled from the bottom of Cecil's rolled up sleeves were /glowing/, and /writhing/, and more than that, one had darted, down his wrist, across the back of his hand, and wrapped itself, somehow, around Carlo's palm. As he watched it, it snaked it's way around the back of his hand, then around his wrist. 

 

Cecil had apparently followed his gaze, because he jerked back and shook his hand as if he had injured it, flailing through empty air. Carlos watched him in silence and the light lingered, stretched from Cecil's body to his, for an instant, until it retreated to the flesh of his master. Cecil was blushing a bright purple.

 

“I'm so, so sorry about that.” he ran the offending hand down his chest then glared at it, as if it were a spoiled pet worth reprimanding, “I can usually control them better than that.”

 

“You probably have radiation poisoning.” Carlos furrowed his brow, “We're picking up unhealthy amounts of radiation from the canyon out back and the entire surrounding area. Do you mind if I check this room for radioactive materials?” He reached into his pocket and produced the counter that he had turned off. When he looked back up, Cecil was beaming at him.

 

“Of course! Yes! Test for all the materials you want!” he spread his arms out, “Test /everything/. I'm /very/ interested in forming a healthy and mutually beneficial relationship with the scientific community.”

 

“That's... that's incredibly useful, actually, Mr Palmer,” Carlos paused in his search, even though the counter was going mad, “You seem to have a rather impressive, uh... viewership? Listener...ship? We're gonna need to get the word out about some of the stuff that we're studying, or collect data via volunteers. The people in this town are so interesting. If you could help with that, we'd really appreciate it.” He looked back up at Cecil who was smiling, wide eyed... all three eyes wide, “You're incredibly scientifically interesting.” Carlos added, gazing into those strange, / _interesting_ / orbs.

 

“Mr Palmer is so /formal/, and who needs /formalities/. Ugh. Formal situations, right? Cecil.” He picked up something from his desk, then a post it, and Carlos heard scratching, but didn't look up from the Geiger counter. He had moved to the other side of Cecil's desk, staring at it. 

 

“Carlos?” Cecil leaned in, waving something in his face, trying to get his attention, “My phone number. If you ever need any help, for scientific or,” he let his eyes dart up and down Carlos's form, “/personal/ reasons, I'd be more than willing to help. Adjustment to life in Night Vale can be a little difficult for interl- er, uh, for /outsiders/.”

 

Carlos didn't really hear him. The counter was beeping wildly. He looked up, fear in his eyes, face distorted by panic.

 

“This is impossible,” he said, with a hand over his mouth, “This is almost 2000... that's higher than Fukushima.” He darted his eyes and caught Cecil's face. He ripped the paper, whatever it was, out of his hand and continued, “Mr Palmer, we have”

 

“Cecil”

 

But Carlos continued as if he hadn't heard him, “We have to evacuate the building. This can be deadly. Everyone here is going to have radiation sickness! This is...” he had to remain calm. But those bastards at the foundation had sent him into a deadly situation and he was NOT happy about it, and he planned to tell them as much in his report.

 

“This can /kill/ people! We have to evacuate! How many people are in here? You need to warn your listeners that they have to stay AWAY from Radon Canyon! We need to leave as soon as you deliver the message!”

 

“Tell them yourself! Stay for an interview. It'll give you a chance to talk to the town personally.” 

 

Carlos was far too sleep deprived for this. He dug his free hand into his hair, pulling at it in a panic. He looked back at the geiger counter, and hysterically explained, “This will /kill/ you, Cecil! You need to evacuate! I can't... I can't stay here! This is /deadly/!”

 

“Oh. The weather's ending. You sure you won't stay for an interview?” Cecil slid back into his chair and pulled it up to the desk. He was adjusting his headphones, far more calm than Carlos could even begin to comprehend.

 

“It will KILL YOU!” he shouted, but Cecil remained undisturbed. Carlos shot his eyes to the counter, then back to the calm creature sipping his coffee, then turned on his heel and ran as fast he could, through the producer's booth, through the disturbing hall, and smashed through the giant ornate doors. He was running so fast that he stumbled down the stairs, fell on his face, and stood to keep sprinting without picking the gravel out of his hands.

 

“Don't go back in there!” he shouted at Chad, “It'll KILL you!”

 

“You met Station Management?” Chad laughed and flicked the butt of his spent cigarette into the parking lot before catching the door that had not yet slid shut and sliding inside the studio. 

 

Carlos banged on the side door, and Dave, seeing his panic, opened it and let him in.

 

“Don't touch me!” Carlos shrieked and slid past him, into the back, “Get me back to the lab, we need to do a full decon! It's over 1000 in there!”

 

“Shit,” Chad hissed and Rochelle threw the van into reverse before he was able to get the door closed.

 

Carlos looked down at the paper he was still clutching. It was a phone number.


	8. The Glow Cloud does not need to converse with us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It does not feel as we tiny humans feel. It has no need for thoughts or feelings of love.

“Well,” Rochelle concluded, scratching her head in confusion, “You're not affected at all. Which, is quite frankly, disturbing.”

 

“I'm dying,” Carlos countered, and curled up on the cot clutching the band-aid from where she had drawn his blood.

 

“No, you're not, and it's freaking me out. No anemia, no gastrointestinal problems, no neurological problems that can't be chalked up to sleep deprivation. At the very least you should be puking that greasy pizza up.”

 

“I'm /dying/” Carlos insisted.

 

Rochelle rolled her eyes, “Well... not any faster than the rest of us. Look. If these signs are going to show up, they'll show up in the next 24 hours. Just sleep, ok? Like... stay here, in decon, and sleep. I'll make somebody wash your bedding. Write the foundation, we've got a lot of useful information.”

 

“The foundation is NOT gonna be super happy to hear from me,” Carlos sneered, “This town is a cancer waiting to happen!”

 

“Town?”

 

“Containment site. You know what I mean. I'm tired.” Carlos brushed her off. 

 

“We're all tired, boss. Look, just stay in here, 24 hours, ok? I don't even think that you need to do that. But just as a precaution.” She looked down at the clipboard and sighed. 

 

Carlos nodded, then added, “Can you get the lights? I really just want to rest.”

 

She turned them off on her way out.

 

* * *

 

The next day was fairly uneventful, but when Carlos finally let Rochelle open the decontamination unit, he was happy to see that his team had apparently spent their time without a leader cleaning. The lab and kitchen were cleared of the dust and mold, the dryer had been repaired, and the comforter he collapsed into on his bed smelled like fabric softener instead of mold and mouse shit.

 

Carlos, for his part, had spent his time locked away writing a strongly worded letter to his supervisor, explaining exactly how their first day had went, and how he didn't appreciate being thrust into significantly more danger than the briefing his team was given had led them to believe. He had assumed, given his security clearance level, that he was important enough to the foundation that they would use adequate resources to educate himself and his team, and even went so far as to call into question the competency of the person who was, apparently, sending team after team of researchers to their inevitable death. He had not yet received a reply.

 

* * *

 

They decided to go out for breakfast in order to celebrate Carlos's continued existence. There was a 24 hour diner that promised a slew of unhealthy grease masquerading as food, and Dave had offered to pay for the entire team to eat. Carlos thought that he felt a little guilty over locking him out of the van in a radioactive wasteland.

 

If he was guilty, he didn't mention it, opting instead to be blinded by seismology. The earthquakes were still happening, and apparently there were shifts in the electromagnetic field surrounding the site. Li, their current weather expert mentioned that there were strange air currents and pressures for this part of the country. 

 

Carlos was just happy to be alive, and drenched his pancakes in syrup. Food was so much more delicious when you were alive to eat it. He found himself thinking about how lucky he was to continue living, and then about how lucky he was to exist at all. There was an entire string of very specific circumstances that had to occur dating all the way back to the beginning of time that allowed the planet to form, life to occur, humanity to evolve, and each and every one of his ancestors to survive, select a mate, reproduce... every single choice by every single person in that line was extremely important to achieve the outcome of his eventual existence. He took a bite, sipped his coffee, and let the flavors combine on his pallet. It was so exciting to be sitting in the diner. It was so exciting to still be alive. Everything was exciting, but especially existence.

 

He kept mostly quiet during the meal, focusing instead of the energy of his team, thinking about their backgrounds and how unlikely they were, or... not unlikely. Obviously there was a probability that they would exist, because they did, but there were an infinitely unknowable number of universes in which they might not, given that any choice by any creature along an incomprehensible time-line could affect the perceived future, and their existence was facilitated only by an incredibly specific set of those choices.

 

Then the armadillo fell past the window beside their table. 

 

Those closest to the window jumped, those farthest jumped up to see what it was. Then the raccoon landed with a sickening THUD. But that was nowhere near as bad as the sound of the turtle's shell. Dave went to pay and the rest of the team headed outside, to see who the hell was throwing dead animals off the roof. Because who does that? That's ethically reprehensible.

 

Carlos shielded his eyes as he turned them toward the skies. They widened in surprise and he jerked them away.

 

“No one make eye contact!” he commanded his team, “It's a 312! It must have just fed! This is, however, an excellent research opportunity!” 

 

By the end of his sentence, he had to shout to be heard over the cascade of falling corpses. He took out his phone and pointed it toward the cloud. “THIS IS AMAZING!” he yelled, “I'VE NEVER SEEN ONE OF THESE BEFORE!”

 

“THERE HAVE ONLY EVER BEEN THREE CONFIRMED CASES!” Rochelle agreed, “BUT NONE OF THEM WERE IN THE DOSSIER!”

 

“THEN IT'S NEW?” Carlos asked, “WAS IT CONTAINED HERE OR DRAWN HERE OF IT'S OWN ACCORD?”

 

“I LOVE HOW YOU ASK THAT LIKE I WOULD KNOW!” She narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn't see it, his eyes were glued to the screen. 

 

Suddenly, he felt himself jolted backwards. Dave had jerked him by the fabric of his labcoat into his arms, as the space he had previously occupied on the sidewalk exploded in a splatter of bone and blood and organs as another turtle, this one considerably larger than the first they observed, hit the concrete hard enough to shatter it. This town was trying to kill him.

 

“THANKS!”

 

“YOU GOT IT BOSS!” Dave slapped him playfully on the back.

 

“LET'S TRY TO GATHER SOME DATA!” Carlos suggested, eyeing the parking lot. The science van was covered in fur and viscera. That was super disgusting. Right after breakfast. Perfect timing. As he stood trying to judge the best way to make it to the van, the cloud, and the rain of corpses, made it out of the parking lot and down the road. He watched as it passed by the other restaurants in the little center. A full grown lion hit the sign of the ice cream parlor and he cringed as he saw people step outside.

 

They trailed the 312 for the rest of the day, until it finally seemed to have stopped, around midnight, near the damn radioactive canyon again. Somehow, the police had managed to barricade it, so the team pulled up and Carlos sprung from the car, looking for the “Sheriff”, their security detail from the foundation. He found him, protecting his anonymity as always, with his officers performing crowd control. 

 

The sheriff gave him a long, judgmental look from behind his balaclava. Finally, he cocked his head and said, “We'll talk in the car.”

 

Carlos followed him to a windowless black van and climbed inside.

 

“You're the new scientist?”

 

“You're the head of security?”

 

Carlos and the man stared at each other for a long time before the man reached into his vest. Carlos braced himself, but the man didn't pull out a gun. Instead, he handed him a SCP badge. Carlos breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out his own for the man to examine.

 

“You know,” Carlos chuckled, “Calling yourself the S **S** P is probably not the best cover.”

 

“Yeah, smart guy?” The Sheriff handed him his ID badge back, “What are we dealing with?”

 

“It's a 312. The easiest way to appease it is to give it a sacrifice. It wants to feed. Generally, they'll latch onto a single person, follow them for months, sometimes years. The easiest way to contain it would be to force that attachment to a... citizen. Of the town.” Carlos looked down. He didn't like sacrificing people, even if they weren't _people_ in the traditional sense. “So... is there anyone that you can spare?”

 

The Sheriff stuck his head out the door, “Yo Tom! Give up on the crowd control! Let the people go screaming at the damn thing! See if they can figure out what it wants!”

 

Carlos stared at him, wide-eyed.

 

The Sheriff chuckled, “Pretty high mortality rate around here, scientist. You get hard or you get... reducated. Sometimes people can't cope with the memories. If that happens,” he paused, shrugged, and Carlos couldn't read his expression under the mask, “Sometimes people are better off without those memories. No reason to stay traumatized, right, Doc?” He laughed and slapped Carlos on the shoulder like they were old friends. Something big hit the top of the van and Carlos jumped.

 

“Yes,” Carlos finally regained his composure, “Well. We should, uh, get going. I've got science to do and I'm sure that you have security duties to attend to.”

 

“Hey, doc,” the Sheriff spoke again as Carlos opened the door, “How long you stayin?”

 

“My contract will come up for review at the end of the year,”. He arched an eyebrow. What an odd question,

 

“Think you'll make it?” The Sheriff asked, not unkindly.

 

“I'm resilient,” Carlos steeled his eyes, “So is my team.”

 

“The last one they sent didn't look like you.” The Sheriff agreed, “You look... stronger. Not as nerdy as I expected. You work out?”

 

Carlos arched an eyebrow, confusion growing.

 

“Cecil,” the Sheriff's unreadable, hidden face annoyed Carlos, “The Voice”.

 

“The 2600 series. Yes, I know. I can't believe he isn't /contained/.” Carlos looked at the open door and closed it, “These aren't things the SCPs should be hearing, Sheriff.”

 

“Eh,” he waved a hand dismissively, “They don't think too hard. But you do. And that's dangerous. We're here to contain these things. It's _real_ easy to get attached. You ever get attached to your lab rats, doc?”

 

“I'm not really a biologist,” Carlos explained.

 

“Well... they aren't pets, you know? You can't get caught up in details. You have to look at things big picture. You know what I mean?”

 

“There is a difference between treating something like a _pet_ and sending a crowd to their potential death. You don't have to love something to respect it's right to life.” Carlos narrowed his eyes.

 

“You gotta start thinking big picture, doc,” the Sheriff tsked as he shook his head.

 

Carlos nodded, opened the door, and stepped out just in time to see the SSP corralling the 312 into some kind of airborne containment unit.


	9. Two hawk-eyed listeners sent in reports that Carlos, our curious scientific visitor, was seen getting his beautiful, beautiful hair cut.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was having his gorgeous hair shorn! Cut! Cut short! So very short from his perfectly-shaped brilliant head! 
> 
> Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reported that a Creeping Fear came into Night Vale today. He felt it first as a mild apprehension, then a growing worry, and finally a mortal panic. It passed from him to the employees at the Car Lot, who crouched behind their cars and cast fearful eyes at the empty sky.
> 
> It did not affect Old Woman Josie, presumably because of her angelic protection, but it went from there to the rest of the town until we all were shivering in anticipation for a terrible thing we could not yet see.
> 
> I myself was frozen, sure that any movement would lead to death; that any word would be my last.

Everyone woke up apprehensive, with no idea why. When Li tried to make coffee, she shook so hard that she dropped the pot, and the ensuing noise made Dave shriek and jump in alarm, slamming the pan he was using to make pancakes against the stove, spilling the batter onto the burner and causing a small fire. Rochelle's fear responses were more akin to fight than flight, and in response, she accidentally elbowed him in the rib so hard that he sank to the floor. Carlos turned off the burner and watched the fire peter out. He jerked his arm back anyway, as if afraid that the flames would destroy him anyway, despite their continued non-existence,

 

“Is anyone else _fucking terrified_?” Dave asked from his fetal position on the kitchen floor.

 

“ _Life_ is terrifying,” Carlos agreed. He crossed his arms and sighed, “Is yesterday just hitting us all real hard this morning? Dave, get up. There's glass on the floor and _you're gonna get cut!_ ” He had failed to keep the hysteria out of his voice as he pulled him to his feet. “Ok.” He took a deep breath, “Ok. We all just need to... calm down. We'll order from Moonlight, Li can go pick it up, you can work on your seismograph analysis and I'm going to try to figure out what that green... thing... growing in the clocks is. Safe, normal activities. Slow day. We need to recuperate.”

 

“Right” But Dave was shaking in his arms and his voice was weak.

 

Carlos was more conscious about lab safety than usual, as he scraped part of the substance into a test tube and put it in the centrifuge. After the elements had separated, he took it out and held it, an arm's length away, as he slowly,  _ slowly  _ added the destabilizing agent. He had  _ just  _ tipped the alcohol into the solution when Li returned, and closed the door with a slam which, to Carlos's heightened senses, sounded much louder than it actually was. He jumped, emptied the entire container into the tube, dropped the empty alcohol flask, which shattered on the floor, and  _ shrieked  _ as flames shot from the test tube directly into his face.

 

He tossed the tube, which was now overflowing with something that burned, even though nothing he was handling had a right, chemically, to cause burns, into the sink, turned the fume hood on, and jumped into the emergency shower.

 

“Carlos?” Dave was banging on the door in a panic, “I smell burning hair!”

 

“Yeah MY HEAD IS ON FIRE!”

 

Dave's eyes widened and he trembled. He heard Rochelle shouting from her desk and followed the sound.

 

“I think...” She began, and trailed off.

 

The other three scientists were all huddling in fear under the window, daring each other to peek through the blinds. There was no way that Carlos, if he ever actually was on fire, which was, honestly, doubtful, given how fast he moved, was STILL on fire, but he elected to stay in the icy water anyway because he was so afraid that, being a chemical fire that made /no logical sense/, it would just spring back up the second he stepped out.

 

And then, suddenly the entire mood in the lab shifted. The undergrads stood up. Dave let go of Rochelle, and she stopped trembling. The water shut off and Carlos stepped, shivering, out of the emergency shower. All six of them stood, looking at each other in confusion, trying to figure out why they had all been so afraid.

 

“I think,” Rochelle tried again, “That there was a 303 outside. Or... maybe a 2006 that actually knew what it was doing. More likely a 303.”

 

“Shit,” Dave rubbed his hands up and down his arms, “Did you guys see what it looked like?”

 

None of the undergrads had seen it at all. Carlos hugged himself as well, trying to warm up, before he finally spoke, “So... whatever that stuff in the clocks is, when you combine it with a detergent, and then an alcohol solution, like you normally would to get the dna, it combusts for some reason. So...” he slid off his lab coat and rang it out, “That's a thing.”

 

Dave and Rochelle burst out laughing. Carlos joined in, just thankful that the tension had broken. It wasn't until Dave walked over and ran a hand through his hair that he realized something was actually wrong.

 

“...how bad is it?” He asked after he managed to build his courage up.

 

“It's... _alternative_ ,” Dave smirked, “Looks punk as hell.”

 

Rochelle held up a mirror and Carlos's face fell. The explosion had singed the hair almost completely off the left front of his head, where he had been holding the test tube, and left the surrounding area scorched. Then he cracked a smile.

 

“Well, I'm not burned. And it's a desert. I can just cut it.” He handed Dave the soaking coat, “I'm gonna go take a shower and think about how many times I've almost died since I got here.”

 

He walked off towards the stairs, whistling. Dave looked at the wet coat, brows knitted, “Why did I take this?”

 

* * *

 

Carlos told himself that he wasn't vain. He had been telling himself this as an act of denial for years, as he continued to buy gym memberships and eat vegan omelets and rub moisturizers into his skin and hair. Those things were things that  _ healthy  _ people do, things that are  _ scientifically proven  _ to improve the quality of life for the person who does them. If he were vain, he would have turned in his glasses for contacts long ago. Around the time he got he teeth capped. Which was also healthy. He needed healthy teeth. Everyone needed healthy teeth. He was one of the twelve people on the planet who actually brushed and flossed after every meal. Carlos was  _ not  _ vain,

 

But he did need to look presentable. And he lived in a desert, where it was incredibly hot, and he wound up doing a lot of field work, so as he sat looking at posters in the barber shop and waiting his turn, he absolutely was not lamenting the loss of his gorgeous hair, which was dark, and therefore attracted heat, and thick, and therefore retained heat- nor was he growing ever more annoyed at the limited options for male hairstyles. All the chairs were full, and most of the people in them were getting 'generic male haircut #2' or something like it, but he did smile to see  _ some  _ variety. Near the front he could make out bright blue hues being expertly styled into something that would be perfect for an art student's first exhibition.

 

A pudgy man with an impressive mustache led a customer to the desk and waved as he departed. Everyone, at least, seemed to leave the place happy. And Carlos instantly liked the man. He reminded him of Mario, if he had dedicated his life to cosmology rather than plumbing. He suddenly worried if his T-shirt was an offensive stereotype.

 

“You're next,” The man called, and he _even had the accent_ and Carlos crossed his arms and smiled, trying to pretend his was shy and not a potentially offensive nerd as he followed him. He climbed into the chair, let the man drape the tarp over him, and examine him.

 

“I... had a lab accident.” Carlos explained.

 

“Is that why the fire?” The man asked and Carlos blushed until he continued, “Because I can do the fire. I have people, they _swear_ by the singing. Say that it keeps the ends from splitting.”

 

“I just kinda want it evened out,” Carlos decided not to be shocked by that. He just didn't have enough fucks left to give one out over something so trivial, “I don't care how. Fire, acid, blades, whatever.”

 

“You are that new scientist, yes?” The man asked, spinning him around, “I am Telly.”

 

“Oh!” Carlos smiled, “From the sign?”

 

“Yes. This is my shop. You are in good hands. Now, tell me about your science.”

 

“There's not much to tell really,” Carlos began, but it was a lie. He started to explain the nature of the earthquakes, then the clocks, then the timing of the sunsets, and by the time he had made it to the nature of time itself, Telly was spinning him toward the mirror. Carlos was amazed. He had shaved the sides to be even with the place he had burned off, and left the top long enough to be puffy and played with. He looked _cute_. It took a good ten years off his appearance. The area he had shaved included the gray that had started coming in, so the youthful style was all thick and jet black. Telly had put _something_ in it that had even slightly tamed it.

 

“All done,” Telly announced, and lifted the tarp. He brushed a few errant hairs away and led Carlos up front to finish up. He gladly paid and tossed a $5 in the tip jar. He drove back to the lab, whistling.

 

 


End file.
